


Drums and Monsters

by snarkydame



Series: Hunt 'verse [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fantasy, M/M, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarkydame/pseuds/snarkydame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein all the werewolves have been taken as hounds by the Wild Hunt, except for Gerard, who's stuck looking frantically for his pack.  And Frank is a vampire hanging out in a club called Spenser's Queene, who runs into Gerard and is just <em>fascinated.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Drums and Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the no_tags challenge 2011, for the prompt "Frank/Gerard: vampires and werewolves, oh my!

In the forest, in the thickest tangles of briar and thorn, the shadows were legion.

They lurked in the roots of trees so old they'd been tall when the dragons flew overhead. They pooled on the surface of streams that flowed so slowly they made no sound, and in their dark folds a hundred small creatures hid themselves

Here, one shadow – too lean, hungry eyed – pulled itself apart and slunk out of the brambles. The shadow splashed unheeding through the sluggish streams; sent long, slow ribbons of mud and riverslime unspooling behind his thorn scarred feet.

On the far bank, the shadow paused, one foot raised, and sniffed the air. His ragged ears flattened, and a faint whine disturbed the hidden creatures in the undergrowth. In the expectant hush, the whine rose higher, and gained force, until a swirling, knife edged howl broke through the knotted shadows of the oldest wood.

The sound quivered, thin and cold in the winter winds, like the voice of the pale round moon.

* * *

Even in a club like Spenser's Queene – all scene kids, monsters, and the rats in the rafters – the guy stood out. His hair had been dyed once, but he obviously hadn't cared to keep it up in a while. There was red there, still, where it hadn't faded. It was growing in dark at the roots. Greasy, tangled. His shirt was torn, frayed and faded. The ironed on logo was indecipherable, flaked away. He was skinny, rough skinny, not eating right skinny – all angles and edges. But he moved like a shadow. Fluid. He slid through the crowd like he'd known how to prowl once. Like a predator. The flapping soles of his buckled boots didn't change that.

The scene kids curled their lips, but they moved aside. Like they didn't even realize they were doing it.

The monsters knew it. They fucking _swerved_.

A pooka slipped over the bar so fast he nearly took out the bartender. The troll he kicked on the way over glared, hunching her shoulders over her beer, then looked around and tried to make herself small.

In the packed club, where most everyone ended up wearing other people's makeup on their sleeves, no one touched him.

Frank found this convenient. Made it easier for him to get a good look, not having to stretch to see over the kids in their fucking platform boots. Like they didn't come tall enough these days already.

He tucked his hands in his belt and pursed his lips. Not a local, this guy. He didn't smell like the city – even through the stale beer/sweat/sex/hot wiring smell of the club, Frank could tell that. Earthy. Like still water, and dead leaves. Blood, a copper tang underneath. He stretched his senses, trying to get a better read.

The guy drew even with Frank just as the shitty opening band's last song died in a shriek of feedback and reverb. In the relative quiet, so close to him, the guy's heartbeat hit like a great damn kick drum, and Frank gasped.

The guy turned his head. Met his eyes. Frank stared.

The club faded into pale smears of color at the edges of his vision. All he saw were the guy's eyes, big and dark and utterly wild.

 _Pretty_ , the inane thought came, helplessly, and he wanted to pinch himself. Wished he had claws so he'd really get the message.

Damn. Fucking _werewolf_.

* * *

Gerard barely noticed the changes in the club. New lights, maybe. More reds and golds and greens. Four man band on the stage – no one he recognized. Maybe Mikey . . .

More kids than monsters in the crowd. Or maybe the Fae were avoiding him, blending in. He would have cared once. Would have made a point of being approachable. Bridging fucking gaps.

He couldn't make himself care now. They were afraid of him? He would have laughed, if he remembered how.

Now he just welcomed the distance. His skin felt too new, so soon after the full moon. Fragile, like he'd tear open just brushing some scene kid's zipper, some goblin's tusks.

He had the sudden mental image of himself spilling over the floor like a cheap drink knocked out of a woodsprite's hand. He missed a step at the sight, blind for a second, and the band seemed to stumble with him, ending their set with a wail that set his hackles up.

Someone gasped beside him. He turned, wondering if whoever it was could see it too. All blood and guts and bone – no heart though. He'd already lost that.

The kid – no, not a kid. Vampire.

He felt that ancient fucking instinct try to get him to bare teeth, to snap and snarl.

But he was exhausted. And the vampire was just staring at him, eyes wide. They were the color of the deep-briar streams in summer and for a moment, everything was still. Quiet. He could breathe, and it didn't hurt.

Fuck it.

He closed his eyes, broke the connection. The club came roaring back, the techs setting up for the next band sending broken chords winging over the crowd.

The chords stuttered when he hopped on stage. Security guards reached out. But their hands dropped before they touched him before they ripped him open. That was Worm, he thought that was Worm anyway, looming over the guards' shoulders.

He stepped over the coils of cable at the side of the stage.

Under the green-tinged fluorescents of the back hallway he felt calmer. More in control.

It was an illusion, but he was fucking absurdly grateful for it.

* * *

"What was that? Frankie?"

He shook himself back inside his head with an effort, and turned to grab at Dewees' sleeve. "Did you see him?" he asked, voice way too high.

"I saw you go all frozen and shit. What the hell's wrong with you?" Dewees scowled down at him, handing over the glass of O-neg he'd fetched from the bar. "You look like someone hit you over the head."

" _Werewolf_ , Dewees! You know how long it's been since I ran into one of those? He could have ripped my fucking head off!" Weirdly, the next thing he wanted to say was _'did you see his **face**?_ , but he managed to swallow that part. He shivered at the feel of it, squirming in his belly. It felt warm. Totally embarrassing.

"Whatever, man," Dewees scoffed. "The wolves are extinct, or banished from this plane or some shit. The King pulled all the packs into the Hunt, like, two years ago."

"Well, he missed one, jackass. I know a fucking werewolf when he looks me in the eye."

Dewees took his glass away. "Someone spiked your blood, pal."

"I haven't even _had_ any yet!" He grabbed for it. "And I'm fucking thirsty, so give it here!"

"Hey, watch the shirt!"

"You've got stains all over that piece of shit shirt, stop whining."

"I don't have _blood_ stains on this shirt. You're gonna get me eaten!" Dewees brushed indignantly at the tiny red drop on his cuff.

"That's a myth, and you know it. No self-respecting vampire is gonna go after spilled blood."

"Gabe totally did, that one time. Whole club saw it."

"Yeah, well, _Gabe_. I said any self-respecting . . ." Frank shook his head hard enough to swing his hair into his eyes, and paused, pushing it back. "This is not the point of this conversation. The _point_ is: werewolf! Backstage at the Queene!"

"Not possible. But hey, you wanna make sure, you go on back and find out. Worm'll let you through if you say you've gotta talk to Brian."

Frank gaped. That stupid warm feeling was back, wriggly now with adrenaline. "Dewees, you fucker, I could kiss you."

"Yeah, don't do that. I'm trying to catch that nixie's eye," Dewees said, waving him off.

Frank slipped through the crowd as quick as he could – though not nearly as fast as the werewolf. No one moved aside for vampires these days. Not unless that vampire was as crazy as Gabe fucking Saporta, anyway. Still, with the strategic application of fist and elbow, he made it to the stage before the next band came out.

He caught Worm's eye at the barrier – one of the wyvern's eye ridges rose, but he leaned in to listen.

"Dude, is Brian in?" _Is there a fucking werewolf backstage? Don't you think he's hot?_ he did _not_ ask.

Worm leaned a little closer. Frank didn't flinch at the teeth – he had teeth too. He couldn't breath fire though, so he wasn't ashamed of pulling back a bit.

"Brian's . . . busy, fangboy. Is it important?"

"Yes!" Frank coughed, wrestled his enthusiasm down a bit. "Yeah, it's important. And it won't take long."

Worm sighed, a hot breath that ruffled Frank's hair. "Fine. Up. If he's got someone in his office, just . . . wait, all right? Use the manners your mama gave you."

He hauled Frank over the barrier with one clawed hand (seriously, humiliating, if Worm's great great great granddaddy hadn't been a dragon) and set him on the stage. Frank tried not to take off running. Fucking _werewolf_ , man.

* * *

"What about the High Reaches?" Brian's voice was strained, and it took a minute for Gerard to realize that it was probably connected to the way he kept following him with his eyes – back and forth and back and forth and – oh. He was pacing again. He made himself stop and braced his back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. Brian pinched at the bridge of his nose.

"The High Reaches are empty. The Hunt's stripped it bare. Not an owl or an auroch there right now." Gerard could see it when he closed his eyes – the high, wooded slopes empty of any living thing but him, nothing but prints in the snow. Huge, cloven hoof prints, half melted and refrozen like glass where the King's Horsemen had been – and the prints of many many wolves, slowly eroding in the wind.

He'd paused by one set of prints for a long time – two wolves, side by side, at the edge of the pack. At the edge – but never veering away.

He realized he'd paused too long, closed his eyes too long, when he opened them and saw Brian out from around his desk, studying him.

"You'll find them, Gerard. You were only hours behind this time."

" _Hours_. Fuck, Brian." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, tugging impatiently when his fingers caught on a tangle.

"They're _always wolves_ now, for as long he has them. I'm only a wolf once a fucking month. I'm never going to fucking catch up with them."

"Then plan something out, dammit!" Brian yelled. Gerard jumped, cracked his head against the door. Brian's fists were clenched at his sides. "You've been chasing them for years, just reacting. You're running yourself ragged out there, look at you. I hardly recognized you when you walked through that door. You've got to take a rest, Gerard, take a breath."

The concern didn't register, not really. He knew Brian cared. He just didn't know why. He'd tried to show him why it was pointless to care about him now – but he couldn't articulate the protests, the denials, the fucking whines that wanted to boil up out of him like he was a fucking pup. He was worthless now, without a pack. Without Ray. Without _Mikey_.

Sometimes he felt like he'd dreamed them up. Like they'd always been myth. Those days, he could barely make himself breathe – afraid that if he moved he'd distract himself, and forget about them completely.

"At this point, really, even if you do catch up with the Hunt, what are you going to do? How are you going to get them out? You're exhausted, you're barely processing."

He let Brian's angry words crash over him like an avalanche – the world felt muffled. All white.

Get them out? Get them away from the King and his Wild Hunt? He wanted to. Gods and Devils, he wanted to. He'd leap for the throat of the King himself if it would unlock his hold on his little pack. He'd never survive it, of course. But Mikey and Ray, if it got them out . . . if it gave them a _chance_ to get out . . . to be real . . .

"I can rest if they're out," he said, out loud. And by the look in Brian's eye, he knew what he'd been thinking, too.

"Gerard . . ." And he flinched, violently, as Brian pulled him away from the door and wrapped his arms around him. "Don't you fucking think it, you fucking asshole."

He stiffened, started to pull away. But it felt . . . nice. To touch someone. He let himself lean on Brian for just a bit more. Just until he stopped trembling . . .

* * *

Frank stood with one hand raised to knock for a stupidly long time after Brian stopped yelling. He hadn't really been eavesdropping. Vampire hearing – didn't really have to try.

Not that he wasn't sure they'd left a whole lot unspoken. They were obviously old friends. Had he been here before, the werewolf? Gerard?

He rolled the name over his tongue a bit, then stopped when he noticed he was doing it. Total creeper thing to do.

Which, considering he was lurking around outside of Brian's office waiting for a glimpse of the . . . for a glimpse of _Gerard_ . . . well, he might as well own up to the creeperness.

But the door shifted under his lowering knuckles, and he lept straight up, not even thinking as he swung himself soundlessly into the rafters. He clipped a light on his way up – the long fluorescent tube was still swaying as Brian came out of his office.

Frank pressed himself back into the deepest shadow he could find, hoping the light would blind Brian if he looked up.

But he didn't. Instead, Brian rushed on down the hall, already on the phone. His snarl was particularly vicious at the moment, Frank noticed.

He gave it a good minute, to see if Gerard was going to follow. When he didn't, and he still heard nothing from inside the office, Frank dropped to the floor in a soundless crouch.

The door wasn't closed all the way. Which was weird. Brian was an uptight motherfucker with security.

But maybe leaving a werewolf – one as close to the edge as this one seemed to be – in a small locked room would be a bad idea.

Frank pushed the door wider with one hand, peering around into the room. He could hear Gerard's heartbeat – that same, startling kick drum beat, a little steadier now.

He was asleep, curled tightly on the battered old couch Brian kept to the side, for nights when he stayed up late working on the club's accounts. All Frank could see was his tangled hair, fanning over the faded blue fleece blanket that covered the rest of the werewolf. The blanket was bunched around his face, like he was gripping it in tightly knotted fists on the other side.

Hesitantly, one step at a time, Frank crept closer. Something that might have been dread, an old and mindless fear, crept on icy talons down his spine. It was background noise. Feedback. Mostly, Frank ignored it.

He stopped well out of reach of the couch. He didn't want to spook him. He just wanted . . . to be there.

It hadn't sounded, to him, like Gerard should be alone.

  
* * *

Gerard dreamed of running, under a summer moon so bright they could almost pretend they were wolves in sunlight. Mikey, tall and lanky, pale, pale grey, lept like a leggy pup at Ray's russet back, and sent them both rolling end over end down the hill, almost into the rushing creek that carved into its base. Mikey got up grass stained, and Ray laughed at him, tongue lolling.

He barked down at them, and they shook themselves free of bits of grass and dirt and came trotting up the hill, back to him.

But the ground was shaking.

Mikey crouched, looking back, as Ray stood poised to run between him and any threat. Gerard took the slope at a flying leap, racing for his brother.

But the ground was _heaving_ , and he fell.

The moon turned the color of old bone, leaching all the color from the summer night. The grass stains on Mikey's coat looked like blood.

Gerard struggled to untangle his feet, to get up, to run – but there were hooves all around him now. Great cloven hooves – when they kicked his ribs, they burned.

Howling with pain, he bit and snapped at ghostly hocks, but the Hunters' horses didn't notice. Between them, behind the haze that hindered his vision, he saw Ray, crouched snarling between the Hunt and Mikey.

The horses parted, gave him room, and Gerard lurched to his feet. The spike of pain from his ribs nearly sent him down again, but a great hand swept down, and grabbed him by the ruff, hauling him up to face the King.

Eyes like the ruins of a forest fire under a crown woven from starlight and ice – that's all he could see of a face. He stared back at it, trying to turn his whine into a snarl.

A voice like the crack of lightning struck him then. He rocked with the force of it, nearly falling from the King's grip. But instead, he could feel his body starting to bleed away, into fog, into smoke. Into fire.

His ribs didn't hurt anymore. He hung, limp. Turning into myth.

Until a pale streak knocked him loose again. Mikey, leaping _over_ the back of the King's horse.

Reality, mortality, rushed into him. Solid again, he hit the ground hard, felt something snap.

He could hear Ray howling, _Mikey, Mikey_ , and he tried to find him – his leg wouldn't work right. He couldn't stand. He couldn't see – the Hunters' horses seemed a reflection of the skeletal moon, and all was dark between them.

The ground shook. They were leaving, but they were taking Ray, _taking his brother_.

And leaving him behind.

* * *

Frank wanted to come closer – he wanted to brush Gerard's hair out of his face, to rub his shoulder like his mother used to do for him. Wanted to stop him from making that horrible, shattering noise. Wanted to hold him, and sooth him into better dreams.

"Gods and Devils," he said aloud to himself, "you are so far gone already. Pathetic, Iero."

At the sound of his voice Gerard bolted to his feet.

Frank flew back on his ass, landing with an unvampiric thud. "Shit," he hissed, already putting his hands out, empty.

Gerard was barefoot, and he stood still clutching Brian's blue fleece blanket, but Frank had never seen anything so terrifying in his life.

"It's me, it's just me," he babbled, as Gerard's wide, wild eyes caught him. "Frankie. Frank Iero. Vampire – I think you already know that part. Like I knew what you were, when I saw you properly." The fierce rage in Gerard's eyes hadn't lessened.

"Hah, just . . . calm down. Hey, Gerard," he asked, trying to diffuse the situation. "Did your spine do that creepy chilly thing when you recognized me? Like someone had a knife at your back? That's a weird fucking feeling, man, like our ancestors are prodding us into an arena or some shit."

Gerard was breathing hard, and staring, but he hadn't gone for his throat yet. That was good, Frank thought. That was good, right?

He cleared his throat. "I don't really do gladiatorial disputes, you know? And I figure . . . I _hope_. . . that you don't either, since you didn't, like, jump me on the dance floor. So, you know. Our ancestors can shove right the hell off, so far as I'm concerned."

Amazingly, Gerard blinked.

"Your voice sounds like cigarettes," he said, and while Frank was still processing that, he thumped, cross legged, back onto the couch. He tucked the blanket up around his bare feet and sat there, staring at Frank.

"Um . . ." Frank started.

"Where's Brian?"

"Working? He was on the phone with a vendor when he left."

Gerard was still staring at him. And drumming the fingers of his right hand on the blanket – the sound competed with his heartbeat, driving Frank a little nuts until he managed to rein his senses back in.

Maybe he should still be talking? Instead of getting caught in a staring match with Gerard, who showed no sign of looking away.

"How do you know Brian? I'm here, like, always, and I've never seen you before."

For a moment, Frank thought Gerard wasn't going to answer him. That he'd be sitting here talking all by himself, while Gerard just . . . stared. But then he shook himself all over, like a dog (like a fucking _werewolf_ what the fuck) and sank back a little into the couch.

"My brother used to work with him," He said. He seemed almost . . . hesitant. "Mikey found him new bands."

Frank's back straightened so suddenly he thought he heard it crack. "Your brother is Mikey Fuckin Way? But I know him!" And now . . . shit. Now he knew why he hadn't seen him around in so long. He'd thought he'd, like, moved out to the coast or something. He hadn't even known he was a werewolf. How'd he missed that?

Gerard was – whoa, Gerard was on the ground now, _really_ close to him. How'd he move so fast while he was still wrapped up in that damn fleece blanket?

"You know Mikey?" he asked. This close his eyes were . . . really intense, Frank thought, a little dazed.

"Yeah, yeah. Dude got my band to play here once."

Gerard blinked again – that's twice! Frank thought, and felt like giggling. Then he held himself as still as he could (and vampires could hold fucking _still_ ) because Gerard was holding his hand. Was turning it, staring at the tattoos across his knuckles. His fingers felt like bars of heat.

"Frankie. Frank Iero. And Pencey Prep. He talked about you."

He sounded as dazed as Frank felt.

* * *

The vampire's hand was cold – not clammy, not frozen or anything, but cool. It felt good, against his fingers. Gerard felt almost fevered, himself.

He wasn't . . . Frank wasn't pulling away. Everyone pulled away, everyone flinched – everyone but Brian, now. And this little punk vampire, apparently.

It made it really hard to concentrate, touching someone.

And he knew Mikey. Couldn't have known him as a wolf – Mikey kept that shit secret better than any of them. But he knew Mikey, with his stupid hair and his stupid glasses . . . He remembered him. Like he wasn't just smoke and fire, wasn't just myth.

Gerard couldn't have let go of his hand if he tried.

"So . . ." Frank was saying, "you're not, like, into that whole 'werewolves versus vampires' thing either, huh?" He was almost vibrating in place now. Gerard hadn't ever met a vampire so twitchy.

"No. No," Gerard said, surprising himself. He hadn't talked this much in years. "I always thought it was pretty stupid to hate someone just because tradition told you to. Fucking instinct, you know? It's like, you need it, and you should listen, but . . . people shouldn't be slaves to it."

He looked up from Frank's tattoos then, following the line of his arm to his face. And paused. Frank was staring back at him, mouth a little open, eyes wide.

He was really . . . Gerard felt the thought start to haze a little at the edges. He could feel his face go red.

"You're really fucking pretty." Frank sounded like he couldn't help saying it – from the look on his face, suddenly mortified, he really hadn't meant to. He tried to tug his hand free, to stand up, to leave maybe, and Gerard . . . Gerard couldn't let him.

He pulled him forward instead. And kissed him.

* * *

 _He kissed me_. Every thought but that one flew out of Frank's head. _He's **still** kissing me_. His mouth was hot, insistent, and Frank couldn't _not_ kiss back.

He felt a stupid thrill at the sound Gerard made when he slipped his tongue into his mouth. His fingers tightened so much on his hand it almost hurt, but Frank just gripped back. Let him pull him closer, until he was almost sitting on Gerard's knees. He brought his free hand up to catch his balance against Gerard's chest – and left it there. Gerard's heart drummed furiously beneath his hand, a tripping, headlong beat that Frank could set guitars to. He groaned.

Gerard's hand was in his hair, gripping the back of his head. He dragged his mouth away from Frank's, breathed hot and frantic over his jawline, over his pulse. Frank pulled in air like he'd been drowning.

Then they were lying on the floor, half tangled in that damn blue blanket. His knees flanked Frank's hips, and Gerard had his hand pinned out to the side – he hadn't let go yet. Frank writhed in an entirely embarrassing way beneath him, running his free hand up under Gerard's ratty t-shirt. He could feel his ribs, his skin twitching under his hand. He found his heartbeat again, let it draw him under.

Gerard growled, fucking _growled_ , and caught at Frank's belt buckle with fumbling fingers. He swore into the side of Frank's neck when the buckle wouldn't give, and Frank giggled. He felt high. He could hear Gerard's blood, rushing through his veins.

Gerard got his belt loose, got his hand in Frank's pants, and Gods, that felt . . . that felt so . . . Frank felt himself scatter, tiny Frank-fragments, all over the room. The only thing that felt solid was Gerard's hand, so hot, _searing_ , on his dick.

He bit, helplessly, at Gerard's neck, fangs out, just the tiniest bit. Gerard shuddered over him, and his fingers tightened, pulling him free of his jeans. Frank's hips snapped up, on their own. He certainly wasn't making decisions at this point.

Gerard pulled their joined hands up – kissed his tattoos, one at a time, in time to the helpless little thrusts Frank was making into his hand. Frank's head thunked against the floor, and he stared up at him. Gerard's pupils were blown wide, making his dark eyes bottomless.

Frank splayed his fingers over his heart. "Damn kick drum," he gasped, marveling, and came all over Gerard's hand.

Gerard shuddered again, and pressed his head into Frank's chest, curling over his body. Frank slid his hand around from his chest, gripped the back of his neck from under his rucked up shirt. He felt boneless – like he'd scatter again and never find his way back, except that the heat of Gerard's body was keeping him solid.

Gerard worked his own belt loose, hand still wet with Frank's cum, and jacked himself off with quick, hard strokes. He sank down, his weight pinning Frank to the floor, and he wrapped his arm tighter around Gerard, tangled their legs together. They'd be glued together pretty shortly, but Frank didn't fucking care. He buried his face against Gerard's shoulder. Breathed him in.

Gerard still hadn't let go of his hand.

* * *

He woke up wrapped in Frank's arms. It didn't feel like he was ever letting go, and Gerard felt tears stinging at his eyes. He pinched them shut, and sniffled into Frank's shirt.

Someone else was in the office. He hadn't noticed right away – didn't feel like growling – so he knew it was Brian.

"What the hell, Way." He didn't sound mad though, finding them on his office floor.

"Sorry. I'll wash the blanket."

Brian snorted a laugh. "No you won't, you shit." Gerard opened his eyes then, looked at him.

"You'll have to get yourself loose, you know. The little limpet's a clingy fucker, and he won't wake up now the sun is."

"I'm good here," he said, and meant it. Brian went slowly still, watching him. There was a question in his eyes.

"You said it yourself. I need a plan."

"Yeah. But you never listened when I said it before."

Gerard wasn't sure how to explain it – that need, that frantic, panicked need to chase after his pack, like they'd disappear forever if he stopped. Like he wasn't really real without them, and he couldn't pause, couldn't rest, or he'd forget them, and then disappear himself.

But that was wrong. They weren't just myth. Mikey had worked here. Frank remembered him. Ray had played sometimes with the house bands here – if he asked the bartenders, they'd know him, and his guitar.

They weren't something he'd dreamed up.

"They're real," he said finally, knowing Brian wouldn't get it. Knowing he'd try anyway. "They're real, and I can figure out where they'll be, if I sit back and think about it for a while. I could never see the pattern, while I was chasing after them, but I know there is one."

He stopped, a little shocked. He hadn't seen Brian smile like that for a long time.

Frank mumbled something in his sleep, and Gerard absently reached up to pat his hair. Brian's smile turned into a smirk.

"All right. We'll get started tonight, if you can pry yourself loose."

Gerard flipped him the finger, and laid his head back on Frank's shoulder.

It felt good, being real.

_fin_


End file.
